


Contagion of Trust

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Stubbornness, chickenpox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas is brilliant at many things.  Taking care of himself is not one of them.  Thank goodness his friends  are more stubborn than he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contagion of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the meme which asked for Douglas getting chickenpox as an adult.

The third time exhaustion makes him drop his keys into the snowbank that’s accumulated on his doorstep, Douglas takes a moment to rest his forehead against the front door, swallowing a dozen maledictions against flu-stricken captains, crotchety CEOs, rambunctious cabin boys, and airplanes held together with chewing gum and spit which have made the last week and a half a living hell. He spares a special one for the mild fever tightening his skin and crawling down his spine that’s been plaguing him for almost two days, unmentioned and unrelieved by paracetamol. With a groan, he bends down yet again, digging through the slush in search of the errant keyring, promising himself a long, hot shower and a blazing fire once he finally gets in.

Eventually, his numb, shaking fingers cooperate and he’s standing dripping in the entryway. Adding the latest parcels from the post causes the pile of unopened envelopes on the table by the door to finally topple over, spilling bills and flyers across the floor. Douglas pays them no mind, intent on his shower, stripping off layers as he stumbles down the hall.

The warm water does little to chase away the shivers wracking his frame, and he’s in and out as quickly as possible. Carolyn’s been gracious enough to have given him an indefinite period off, and while he suspects that has more to do with the sudden illness of a two-year-old trapped in a steward’s body and a woeful dearth of paying customers than any true generosity on her part, he’s begrudgingly grateful all the same.

Douglas whiles away the hours simply--a mug of hot tea, a fire with no fewer than four logs on it, a recording of _Der Rosenkavalier_ Martin gave him for his last birthday, and the warmest clothing and blanket he owns. It’s not long into the night before he falls asleep in spite of himself, a product of his exhaustion and the tranquility of sleeping on one’s own sofa rather than some flea-ridden mattress a thousand miles from home.

The next morning, he nearly doesn’t get up at all. Sometime in the night, his head has been locked in a vise and every joint and muscle has taken it upon itself to seize up, leaving him feeling washed out and aching. There’s nothing for it but painkillers, tea, and bed, he decides, and spends the day doing just that. No one calls, not that he expected them to, and he spends miserable hours hovering at the edge of fever, scratching idly at various dry spots on his chest and arms while flipping through approximately 1,000 channels of nothing on the television.

Another day passes in much the same way before Douglas musters up the wherewithal for a shower to wash off the worst of the sweat and grime he feels covering him. As he’s stripping in the bathroom, he notices odd red spots covering the areas he’s felt the itchiest, though in his muddled state, it takes a long moment for the implications to sink in. Once they do, he fairly collapses on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands.

 _Chickenpox,?_ he thinks. It couldn’t be. But a cursory inspection brings back memories of Emily at five, sitting in an oatmeal bath, crying in discomfort. He hangs his head for a moment. _Of all the ridiculous--_

\--and that’s really the point, isn’t it? It _is_ ridiculous, a man of his age to be stricken down by such an ignoble disease. There’s no way he can face the mocking and jokes at the airfield; he’ll just have to ride it out. He took care of Emily when she had it as a child; he’s basically familiar with the process.

In spite of his confidence, the next two days are the most miserable he can remember since he detoxed. Douglas spends his time alternating between a feverish haze and bouts of annoying persistent itching. The worst of it seems to be concentrated on his back, along his spine and directly between his shoulder blades, of course, which means his calamine lotion placement is spotty at best. He briefly considers calling someone for help, but quickly dismisses that notion. Not only would no one come, he’s pretty sure he’d hear no end of teasing, and the more of that avoided the better.

It doesn’t help that the air in the room is getting simultaneously thinner and thicker. He feels like there is less of it to breathe, and what little of it he manages to get into his lungs sits heavy in his chest, like treacle. He’d be concerned if the oppressive heat of the room wasn’t lending substance to shadows and warping time, leeching his higher reasoning powers minute by minute. That night, he reaches the point where simply moving is too much thought and effort, lying on the bed like a beached whale--gasping for breath and shifting restlessly from cool spot to cool spot under the duvet.

No one calls.

\-----

Two days later finds a bedraggled Carolyn barricaded in her office. Arthur is well again but there are no flights, which means she hasn’t seen either of her pilots in more than a week. Thus, it’s no surprise that when the phone _finally_ rings, she jumps at the chance to fly. It’s only a short hop to Moscow, but the customer is desperate, and she manages to wrangle three times the normal fare. Douglas’s behavior on the last trip had been positively surly, and she feels the need to exact some revenge.

Frustratingly, all of her calls to Douglas’s phone go unanswered, and it’s too close to their scheduled take-off time to waste energy trying to find him. Instead, she calls Martin, who immediately protests at the jobs he had lined up. Carolyn sighs and offers to pay him (strictly unofficially, of course) half of whatever Douglas would have made, which still leaves just enough to cover the expenses with a bit left to go towards Fitton’s grounds fees for the year. Martin agrees and she sends him on his way _sans_ Arthur’s cheerful, but possibly still contagious, help. 

Arthur entertains himself in the main office while she runs through books in hers. There is a miraculous silence for nearly three hours before he comes in and sits in her only chair, pressing his feet against her desk to push back onto two legs.

“Mum?” he asks. “Where do you think Douglas is?”

Carolyn snorts. “I neither know nor care. Probably out sleeping it off in some back alley gambling den or attempting to woo some unsuspecting maiden with more money than sense.”

Arthur mulls this over for a bit. “You’re probably right,” he says slowly, “But...I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” She doesn’t even look up from her columns of figures.

He shakes his head. “No, because...Well, I just don’t think so. It’s really hard to hold cards when your hands are shaking. And most of gambling means cards, right? At least the gambling Douglas does?”

Carolyn viciously strikes through a line with her red pen. “Douglas’s hands don’t shake. He’s a professional pilot, dear. For a given value of professional.”

“Not usually,” Arthur says, “but they were before, so they probably are now.”

She looks up at him, a spike of alarm in the back of her head. “When before?”

“On the last flight, when we landed. He tried to keep them in his pockets so I wouldn’t see, but he dropped his keys and had to pick them up and so I did.”

For a moment, Carolyn sees nothing but a flash of red as she contemplates the last time she saw Douglas’s hands shake--nearly a decade ago. _That arrogant fool,_ she thinks. _If he thinks he’ll fly my plane while he’s falling off the wagon..._ The thought trails off, though the ire lingers. She makes a split-second decision. Rising from her desk, she grabs the keys and shoulders on her coat. “Come along, Arthur,” she says. “Let’s go find your favorite First Officer.”

Arthur looks confused. “Who’s my fa--”

“Douglas,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He has the dubious distinction of being _the only_ first officer and thus also _your favorite_.”

“Oh!” Arthur says as he trots behind her. “Great! I’m always happy to see Douglas.”

On the drive over, Carolyn has to stop herself drumming on the steering wheel. She’s unaccountably nervous, which annoys her more than anything. What concern is it of hers if her lazy, arrogant first officer dives headfirst back into the bottle? Besides the obvious financial implications of having only one pilot in a charter air firm, of course, nothing. There isn’t a drop a sentiment in her decision to seek him out, just sound business acumen. Never mind the fact that half of her annoyance comes from the surety he’s apparently broken the promise he made when she first hired him.

Douglas’s Lexus is sitting placidly in the drive, though there are no lights on in the house. Carolyn marches to the door, rocks and snow crunching under her heels and Arthur right behind. Knocking yields no answer, so she pulls out her mobile, growling in frustration. She watches absently as Arthur trudges through the snow, peeking in Douglas’s windows in his best impression of a detective. 

“Mum,” he calls. “Do you know the song that goes duh duh-duh-duh?”

Carolyn sighs. “No, Arthur. Nor does any other person familiar with music on the face of the planet.”

“Sure you do,” he exclaims. “It’s the one that’s Douglas’s ringtone!”

She sighs again and rubs at her forehead. “Then yes, I do know it, Arthur. Why do you ask?”

Arthur comes closer and nods. “Because I just heard it. Isn’t it funny that someone has the same ringtone as Douglas does?”

“It’s not someone else, you clot. That’s _Douglas’s_ phone.”

Arthur’s face lights up in recognition. “Oh! But then....why isn’t he answering it?”

“That,” Carolyn muses as she digs through her handbag “is a very good question. An equally good question is ‘Why the hell don’t I have a key to this house?’”

Arthur snuffles around the front garden like a curious hedgehog as she looks, then disappears into the back garden, reappearing 10 minutes later. “Er, mum?”

“Not right now,” Carolyn says. “I’m trying to find Douglas’s spare key.” She’s run her hand along the top of the door frame, pulled up the welcome mat, and picked up the flowerpot, but it’s failed to appear. Just as she’s about to admit defeat and phone Martin, Arthur bounds over, a key in his hand. “What about this one, mum?’ he asks.

Carolyn looks at him incredulously. “Where on earth did you find this?”

“Douglas’s cat dish.”

“His....cat dish? He doesn’t have a cat.”

Arthur nods as she opens the door. “I know! But I saw the dish on the back deck and I thought ‘If I were Douglas and I had a cat, wouldn’t I want it to be able to get in? And where would a cat know to look for a key? Under their water dish.’ And there it was!””

Carolyn shakes her head as they walk through the sitting room into the kitchen, then pauses in the doorway. 

“What---” Arthur is momentarily shocked into silence as he comes to stand behind her. In the handful of times they’ve been in Douglas’s house, it’s been nothing but spotless, especially what is most obviously his domain--the kitchen. Now, however, there isn’t a spare inch of space on the worktops and the sink is overflowing with dirty plates, bowls, and glasses. 

The stifling silence is suddenly broken by deep, wet coughing from the back of the house. Carolyn raises her eyebrows and follows the sound with Arthur trailing behind, eventually alighting on what is obviously the master bedroom. It’s a very Douglas-y sort of room, she supposes, carefully calculated for the right blend of suave and comfortable. Carolyn finds her errant first officer under a mound of blankets and duvets, curled around a pillow and seemingly doing his utmost to eject his lungs from his body.

“Arthur,” she says. “Be a help and get a glass of water from the kitchen, will you?”

He scampers off with a nod as she picks her way across the minefield of strewn clothing littering the floor, grimacing when she catches sight of wayward pants--this is closer to an employee’s personal life than she ever wanted to be--until she reaches the side of the bed. Douglas doesn’t react in any way to her presence, merely flopping onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow when the coughing fit ends.

“Douglas?” No answer. She reaches for his shoulder, instantly concerned to find he’s radiating heat like a minor star. Shaking him gently doesn’t rouse him, though Douglas does turn his head to the side to breathe more easily, displaying an impressive (and somewhat familiar) collection of welts and blisters on his face.

“Oh, you fool,” she breathes, carding her fingers gently through his fringe to gauge his temperature as Arthur returns with the water.

“What’s that on Douglas’s face?” he asks.

Carolyn frowns a bit, tugging down the neck of the long-sleeved sleep shirt Douglas is currently burrowing into to display another collection of welts on the back of his neck. “If I didn’t know better,” she says “I’d say it almost looks like...” she pauses as she pushes up the sleeve closest to her, gazing at the flushed arm below her.

“Looks like what?”

“Chickenpox,” She answers.

Arthur gives a matching frown. “Chickenpox? But don’t you get that as a kid?”

Carolyn nods, then sits on the bed next to Douglas’s hip, resting her hand on his back just over his shoulder blade, running it down lightly to feel the pox marks covering his back. “Arthur, go look in the bathroom for a thermometer. He must have one around for his daughter.”

“Already found it,” Arthur says, displaying a rare prescience. Carolyn gives him a quick smile then puts it to its intended use, grimacing at the number on the screen. “Is it bad?” he asks.

“No, dear,” she replies. “Perfectly normal--for the middle of the sun. He needs to go to hospital.” Douglas’s breath hitches and he starts coughing again, curling up even more tightly than before, though this time it seems to be enough to shake him awake.

“Douglas,” Carolyn says, resting her hand on the crown of his head, feeling him shudder with fever and the force of his hacking. “Are you with us?”

Douglas blinks his bloodshot eyes open and peers at her muzzily. “Lynn? Wh’s...why?”

“Because you decided to be lazy and not come into work today,” she says, then taps his cheek when he starts to drift off again. “You can sleep in just a second. Answer me a couple of questions first. Did you have the chickenpox as a child?”

Douglas makes a negative-sounding grunt.

“Of course not. Lucky you. Does Emily have it now?” Another grunt, then a raspy “Years ‘go.” The sound of his own voice evidently pains Douglas, who squinches his eyes shut and burrows further into the pillow.

Carolyn nods. “Last question, and don’t even think of lying to me because I will know. What precisely is wrong with you?”

He’s silent for a long moment, long enough that Carolyn starts to think he’s gone back to sleep. Then, muffled. “Itches. Chest. Side.”

Carolyn ponders this information, stroking his shoulder absently until she catches herself, snatching her hand back. “Arthur,” she calls. “Do you think you can help Douglas to the car?”

Arthur comes in from where he’s been rattling around in the kitchen and evaluates Douglas seriously. “I don’t know, Mum,” he says. “He’s awfully big and...droopy, but I’ll try.” It takes some doing, but between the two of them they manage to get him awake enough to maneuver into their car and to the hospital. A&E is packed, and even with Douglas’s clear discomfort it’s still a two-hour wait before he’s taken in the back. In an attempt to keep his contagion from infecting anyone who steps through the doors, they immediately sequester him in a small, spare room. Not that it matters to Douglas--he spends the time with his head lolled back on the wall, barely conscious except for the painful-sounding coughs that wrack his frame every so often.

Carolyn stays when they finally send someone in to see him, more to answer important questions than out of any misplaced sense of worry--or so she tells herself. The look on the doctor’s face as she examines Douglas doesn’t imbue Carolyn with any sense of comfort, especially when the doctor leaves with nary a word, returning with a porter and whisking Douglas away for scans. Carolyn’s left alone to draw conclusions from the little of the examination she was able to follow. Most confusing is the time the doctor spent poking at Douglas’s stomach and making concerned noises. She’s not sure why chickenpox requires scans, but she’s willing to suspend her incredulity for now.

By the time Douglas is returned to her, he’s already asleep again, wheezing a bit. The nurse hooks him back to the monitoring equipment, clucking a little at one of the readings and fitting a nasal cannula under his nose. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, Douglas looks even worse, pale beneath the red blotches on his face and the streaks of fever staining his cheeks as he shivers occasionally under the warmed blankets. Carolyn’s able to stand it for only a few minutes before she’s forced into the waiting room by the weight of her discomfort.

Arthur is still sitting there, toying with the button on his sleeve and looking smaller than his six-foot frame would suggest. He’s watching the woman across the aisle from him deal with two unhappy infants, clearly weighing his desire to help with Carolyn’s admonitions against approaching strangers in public, especially when children are involved. Carolyn saves him from his dilemma with her approach.

“He’s fine,” she says before he has a chance to ask. “Bit of chicken pox, but he’s asleep now. The doctor will come out when they know more.”

Arthur doesn’t look reassured. If anything, he looks even _more_ concerned, biting his lip as he ponders the oddness of having a problem without a Douglas around to fix it. “Should we tell Martin?” he asks.

“No,” she says immediately. “He’d crash the plane and then we wouldn’t have _any_ pilots.” 

He’s not convinced. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s become really good at not crashing! He’d want to know.”

Carolyn scoffs at him. “Oh, how lovely. A pilot’s who has only just _become_ good at not crashing.” She looks over at Arthur, who’s as close to sulking as he’s ever been, and relents a bit. “Fine. I’ll phone him after he’s landed, alright?”

Arthur nods and sits by her side with none of the cheeriness that usually radiates off him. It’s another few hours before Martin’s landed back in Fitton, though Carolyn manages to catch him just before he leaves the airfield. He rings off with a promise to head straight to the hospital after stopping by Douglas’s.

It feels an eternity before Martin makes it, telling them he’s brought all their overnight bags from Gertie’s hold. There’s been no news, and he settles down to wait. Eventually, the doctor comes out, the same placid look on her features that’s been present during the whole ordeal. It’s comforting to Martin and Arthur who don’t know any better, but Carolyn can see the concern in the corners of the doctor’s eyes. She’s right--the news, while superficially optimistic is also a bit worrying. The doctor tells them that Douglas will need to be admitted for a couple of days, though truthfully the only parts Carolyn manages to make out in the rush of medical jargon are “hepatic distress” and “viral pneumonia.” Apparently, getting chicken pox as an adult is very serious normally, let alone if you have a dodgy liver from spending the vast majority of two decades in the bottle. _This is Douglas’s luck at its finest,_ Carolyn thinks. _Good for the moment but rubbish in the long run._

The long and short of it is they want to keep Douglas in the hospital until he’s made “sufficient progress.” Progress with what, the doctor doesn’t say; Carolyn only infers the “until we’re sure his lungs or liver won’t fail.” In subdued tones, the three of them agree there’s nothing more they can do with Douglas admitted and visiting hours over, and they depart for home.

_____

Unfortunately, no matter how much he might think otherwise, the world doesn’t revolve around Douglas Richardson. They meet the next morning at the airfield, an awkward tension between them. Clients still call, flights still need to be scheduled, Arthurs still need entertaining. There are unnatural pauses in their conversation where Douglas’s sarcasm would usually fit, and the sound of the radiator clicking on and off is unbearably loud in the silence that’s taken the place of his usual good-natured humming. The normal rhythm of MJN’s day-to-day operations finds itself just a bit syncopated, though no one comments on it, no matter how much they’re all thinking it. 

Douglas’s ward only allows visitors for a short time in the evening, so the instant the airfield closes, they head back to the hospital, where they find him sat up in bed, bleary-eyed and more-or-less lucid. It’s still difficult for him to keep up with three threads of conversation, especially once Arthur goes off on a tangent about their latest passenger’s fascination with Martin’s hands and the Captain’s subsequent attempts to avoid having them on display. Arthur is too focused on his story, but Carolyn and Martin, gifted with hours of experience in reading the body language of the domesticated Douglas, pick out his embarrassment at being seen as anything less than perfectly composed easily. The discomfort radiates from every line of his body--in the stiff set of his shoulders and the tension in his hands. Eventually, Arthur’s babbling is too much for Carolyn’s frayed patience and she sends him out for coffees, Martin in tow.

“Now then, you monumental idiot,” she says mildly as she moves closer, leaning her hip against his bed. “What on earth were you thinking?”

Douglas blinks at her, relaxing minutely “Thinking?” he rasps.

“When you decided slowly suffocating yourself as you broiled from the inside out was a viable course of action.”

He opens his mouth to answer, a confused look on his face, but didn’t get much more than the first syllable out before his breath catches and he’s wracked with terrible, hacking coughs. Carolyn grabs the conveniently-placed pitcher and pours him a cupful of water, but it’s a while before he can manage to hold it. Her hands itch to rub his back or stroke his hair like she would Arthur, but she is not at all sure Douglas would appreciate the coddling and refrains, curling them into fists and stuffing them into her pockets. 

Eventually, he sinks back against the pillows with his eyes shut, rubbing his chest absentmindedly. The rubbing turns into scratching, which Carolyn halts with a firm hand on his wrist. “That’s enough of that.”

Douglas pulls his wrist away, but stops scratching, tangling his fingers in the blanket covering his lap instead. He forces his eyes to open and meet hers as his head lolls against the pillow, though it’s clearly difficult to _keep_ them open. “Woof,” he says dryly.

There’s a moment of hushed expectation as she waits to see if he’s falling asleep, but he clings to consciousness with the exhausted tenacity of a five-year-old resisting a nap. Eventually, she can’t bear it any longer and reaches out, sweeping his fringe off his forehead in the guise of checking his temperature.

“You’re feeling a bit cooler, at least. Are you in any pain?”

Douglas ponders that for a moment and grunts a soft negative.

“And you’d let us know if you were.” It’s an instruction, not a question; she’s well-versed in the evasions of a Douglas in wound-licking mode. There’s no answer as his eyes finally slide shut and his hands grow lax. Carolyn waits a few moments to be sure he’s asleep, then fusses with the blanket, ensuring he’s tucked in securely. She snatches her hands away when she hears Martin and Arthur approaching.

“Awww,” Arthur says as he hands her a cup of coffee. “I wanted to talk to Douglas.”

“Evaluating the sleeping patient before you, what do you think the chances of that are? Especially since none of us are going to wake him, right?”

“Not good,” Arthur sighs.

Martin follows them to the chairs beside Douglas’s bed. “How is he?” He flushes at her incredulous look. “Well, I can see how he is. I just meant....how is he, you know...” He makes a fluttering, non-committal gesture towards his ear with the hand not holding his coffee. 

“You mean, how is he other than his impression of a supernova? Or the millions of bacteria using his lungs as their very own amusement park? Or the blisters and welts that cover nearly every inch of his skin? Or perhaps--”

“Alright,” Martin says, exasperated. “I get the point. It was a stupid question, and I withdraw it. Satisfied?”

Carolyn sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “He seems confused, I’d say. Or, maybe not confused. Just a bit....slow. It’s...”

“Very un-Douglassy.”

She nods. “Yes. Just so.” They sit in silence for a while, contemplating Douglas’s prone form. None of them would ever admit it, but they’re each the tiniest bit worried he’ll stop breathing if they take their eyes off his chest for too long. Eventually, visiting hours are over and they’re shuffled from the room like so many tourists at Buckingham Palace. The three of them linger awkwardly in the waiting room for a bit before Arthur suggests hot drinks and they adjourn to Carolyn’s house. True to form, his steward-ness comes out and they find themselves sitting around the fireplace with perfectly-made mugs of tea.

Martin breaks the silence. “D’you suppose we’ll have time for a round of rummy before the zombies make it here?”

Carolyn eyes him over her mug. “What are you babbling about?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I just figure that any virus that can take Douglas out so quickly must be some sort of mutant virus. Which means that we, with our lesser immune systems, are all doomed.”

She scoffs at him. “Speak for yourself. My immune system is second to none. Well, second to Arthur, who has the benefit of having been the primary cause of the vast majority of any illnesses I’ve acquired in the last 30-odd years.”

Martin snorts into his mug. The brief moment of levity does nothing to actually raise their spirits, and the good humor fades away more quickly than it arrived. With a sigh, Martin drains the rest of his tea and stands up. “If we’re to be in at eight, I have to go.”

Carolyn waves her hand dismissively. “There’s no need to be in so early. Get some sleep.”

Martin eyes her suspiciously, but she obviously doesn’t want to talk, so he says his goodbyes to Arthur and leaves. For his part, Arthur says nothing, just makes Carolyn another tea. They sit in silence, contemplating the flames in the fireplace for a bit. Eventually, Arthur yawns and heads to bed, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he goes. “Night, mum. Don’t worry too long. Douglas’ll make it through.”

“I’m not--” she starts, then shakes her head as he heads down the hall. “Good night.”

\-----

Visiting hours the next day are only slightly better. Douglas is a bit more alert and clearly better-rested, but his voice is still painfully raspy to listen to, and he can’t get more than half a sentence out without descending into harsh coughing. They stay every minute they’re allowed and some they’re not. Douglas, who between the blisters and the lotion looks like some sort of monster, doesn’t quite manage to carry on his end of the conversation, but by the time they leave, his eyes spark with a muted form of their usual humor.

They say their goodnights when the ward sister catches them in Douglas’s room long after visiting hours are over, and while he’s a bit sad to see them go, there’s the tiniest bit of a relief as it means he can succumb to the ever-present exhaustion. He gets his evening dosage of medicine and is out before the sister turns off the light.

\-----

Unfortunately, the next day MJN takes a flight to Sao Paulo that lasts nearly a week, so Douglas is left to while away the days alone, alternating between extreme boredom and sleep. Finally, the doctor declares him fit enough to be released. Being thrown off when the ward sister asks if there’s anyone they should call to come get him is slightly embarrassing, but he covers with the very British pretense of not wanting to be a bother, and accepts her offer to phone a taxi. 

This means he returns to his cold, dark flat alone. Douglas leans against the door, listening to the sound of the taxi driving away, and surveys the emptiness of his sitting room. He’s surprisingly out of breath just from walking up from the street and it takes him a while before he’s able to force himself to move again. This time, he makes it as far as the kitchen, where he stops in surprise when he discovers it’s been thoroughly cleaned. He manages to work out that Arthur’s the only one who would have bothered, and he’s unexpectedly touched. 

Douglas steels himself enough to make a mug of tea, though his flagging alertness means it’s difficult--he nearly scalds himself twice. The thought of eating only makes him nauseous, and he can only stand a couple sips before his stomach rebels and he’s forced to lie back and think of England. Without meaning to, he falls into itch-ridden sleep on the sofa. 

He’s woken the next day by the rhythmic ringing of his doorbell that signifies the arrival of an Arthur. Standing up reminds him he’s had more comfortable nights in his life--his head spins, his joints ache, and if he has to listen to one more iteration of “shave and a haircut” in the key of doorbell, MJN will find itself _sans_ its steward. With a sigh, he leans his forehead against the door for a moment before opening it, trying to brace himself for the squirrel on amphetamines impression he’s sure to find on the other side. 

He’s not wrong. Standing on his doorstep is one exuberant Arthur holding a bunch of balloons proclaiming “It’s a Boy!” and a soft pink stegosaurus. Douglas starts laughing as soon as he catches sight of dinosaur, which proves to be mistake as it turns into wet, hacking coughs. Arthur looks chagrined for a moment, but Douglas waves him in and they head through to the kitchen for glasses of water. As he’s regaining his breath, Douglas gestures expansively to the gifts Arthur’s brought, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head inquisitively.

Arthur’s brow furrows, then clears. “Oh! Charades! Brilliant! I’ll go first, shall I?”

Douglas rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “My house,” he rasps.

“Oh, right! Okay then, go! I mean, action! Action and also go!”

Douglas drops his head onto the table in mixed frustration and pain, which Arthur ponders for a moment, until his face lights up with recognition. “Oh! Wallace and Grommit!”

Douglas balls up the paper serviette under his cheek and, without even opening his eyes or moving his head, bounces it off Arthur’s nose. “Stop talking. Please. Just...stop.” 

Arthur clamps his mouth shut and watches with mingled concern and interest when Douglas tucks his arms around his head, trying to block out the light. After several moments with no movement, Arthur drops his presents on the table, wedging the dinosaur between Douglas’s folded arms and his cheek and starting the kettle. While it boils, he putts around the kitchen, tidying up. 

Douglas isn’t asleep, but he also isn’t particularly feeling the need to give the thudding behind his eyes any extra ammunition by exposing it to the sunshine that emanates both from and around Arthur. He lets himself doze a bit until he feels Arthur set something at his elbow, cracking open one eye to find his painkillers and a mug of tea. Wordlessly, he takes both, giving Arthur a small, grateful nod. Arthur grins back. “Do you want anything to eat? I made chicken noodle soup, but we didn’t have noodles so I used crisps instead. And we didn’t have chicken, but Mum had some leftover tuna, so I used that. It’s kind of the same, but Mum wouldn’t let me bring it with me. She says only real chicken for chickenpox, and that she’ll save some for me when I get home, although maybe I should have--”

He stops when an odd squeak comes from the direction of Douglas’s head.

“Douglas?”

After clearing his throat, Douglas grinds out “Code Red” with the very last of his voice.

Arthur’s face falls. “Oh. Of course. I’m sorry, I’ll just....” His hands flutter a bit aimlessly, and then he leaves for the sitting room. Douglas feels guilty for a moment, but it’s lost in the coughing fit that overtakes him. After it finishes, he makes another mug of tea and takes it through to Arthur, who is examining the pictures on the wall. Douglas gives him a wan smile, and then retires for a shower, hoping to relieve the itch between his shoulder blades and loosen his vocal cords.

Neither of those things happen, even though he spends nearly an hour under the water. When he rejoins Arthur, it’s to the low sounds of Miss Marple on the telly. Arthur’s taking studious notes in his looping scrawl in between handfuls of popcorn. Every once in awhile, he’ll toss a piece up in the air and try to catch it in his mouth; he is something less than successful. 

There’s another bowl by Douglas’s chair, which he eases into carefully. The liver pain was gone by the second day of his hospital stay, but he’d rather not tempt fate. The two of them settle into an afternoon of murder mysteries, though truthfully Douglas dozes through more than half of them. He wakes up after a particularly long nap to find Arthur gone and Martin lounging on his sofa, reading something paperbacked and chewing on a highlighter. 

The back of Douglas’s neck prickles and his jaw tightens in muted annoyance. It’s a bit disconcerting, this ease with which is fellow MJN members invade his territory and take over, with no regard for his desire for solitude and privacy. He must make some sound, because Martin looks in his direction.

“Oh, Douglas. Good. Carolyn’s sent along some soup. I’ve left it in the slow cooker if you want some. I can--” He’s cut off by a sharp gesture from Douglas, who throws off the blanket he doesn’t remember acquiring and stalks to the kitchen. Martin hesitates, unsure whether he should follow, a dilemma which is solved by the glare Douglas gives on his way out of the room. 

Douglas makes himself tea with more force than is necessary. He very deliberately neither makes nor offers Martin anything, downing his antibiotics and painkillers in two quick swallows. Every little thing grates on his nerves--the sound of the boiler ticking over, the blowing wind outside, the minute squeak of Martin’s highlighter on the page. Douglas’s ire grows second-by-second, until he finds himself grinding his teeth in frustration and a muted sense of claustrophobia. 

The aroma of the soup wafts from the worktop. He knows he’s supposed to take the tablets on a full stomach, and a light soup should be just the thing. Except he doesn’t want to sit at the table and eat soup placidly while the Three Amigos evaluate his every move, gauging his weakness and infirmity, judging the value of replacing him. What he _wants_ to do is yell, to throw them out and barricade the doors until he’s well again. Until he can be First Officer Richardson, master of all he touches, instead of just Douglas, itchy and aching and exhausted.

He can’t take it anymore. Before he’s even finished his tea, he stalks out to the sitting room to ask Martin to leave. Humiliatingly, and in keeping with recent history, his voice has abandoned him entirely--not even a squeak makes it through this time. Martin looks up from his book with such an expression of pity and concern that Douglas sees white before he sees red. He turns on his heel and comes back with Martin’s coat and scarf.

“Douglas,” Martin says, dropping his book on the sofa and holding his hands up. “I don’t think you should go anywhere. If you don’t want--”

He blusters a bit when Douglas picks up the nearest cushion and throws it at his head, pointing furiously to the door. “What--” 

Douglas glares at him and picks up another cushion, brandishing it threateningly. Finally, Martin seems to get the hint. “You want me to leave?” Douglas nods vehemently. “But Carolyn will--” He’s cut off by another cushion to the face. Discretion being the better part of not ending up thrown out in the snow, he exits, pursued by bear.

Douglas shuts the door, throwing the bolt and closing the shades. Almost immediately, his mobile rings--it’s Martin. With a muted growl, he turns it off as he heads to the back garden in search of his spare key. The blowing cold shocks him, and he realizes he’s come out in his anger without any shoes or coat. It’s another small indignity in a month full of them. Douglas hurries through his self-appointed tasks of half a bowl of soup and a brief scrub of his face and neck before finally retreating to the dark warmth of his bedroom. Burrowed under his duvet and two extra blankets, he falls asleep waiting for his feet and hands to re-warm.

Just that short burst of energy exhausts Douglas and he sleeps through the night, waking the next morning in a tangle of bedclothes. With a groan, he flops over, burying his head beneath the pillows and dozing for the better part of an hour until the grumbling of his stomach and other pressing matters force him up. Once he makes it to the kitchen, however, he realizes his crucial mistake--he’d left the slow cooker on and the soup has boiled away to leave charred vegetables and a conglomeration of what he suspects is some type of oat or barley. His damnable temper has left him nothing to eat in the house except two eggs and a bag of uncooked rice, and his damnable pride won’t let him phone for help.

With a sigh, he opens the freezer, hoping against hope Arthur had used the empty ice cube trays for their intended purpose rather than putting them away. He’s caught by surprise when, instead of the cold nothingness he expects, the light from the freezer spills over neatly-wrapped bundles of fish and meat alongside a few boxes of ice lollies in every flavor and bags of frozen vegetables. An inspection of the fridge yields similar results, with shelves of food, crispers full of fruit and veg, and brand new cartons of milk and apple juice. And there, in the very front of the middle shelf is a Tupperware container of what looks like soup with a note taped to the top.

“Eat this,” it reads in Carolyn’s tight, precise script. Douglas rolls his eyes, but takes the soup out anyway. It’s warm and filling, and he finishes most of two bowls before the gnawing hunger abates. Once the dishes are cleaned and put away, he feels at loose ends, drifting idly between the piano and sofa before finally settling down with “The Long Goodbye,” which he’s been meaning to re-read for ages. He lets himself get lost in the comfort of familiar prose, and it’s late in the evening before he’s hungry again.

While he waits for the pasta to boil, he hunts out his phone and turns it back on. It buzzes nearly incessantly for a whole minute with 57 missed text messages, mostly from Arthur, though there are a couple from Martin and a final one from Carolyn that just says “There is a fine line between solitude and hermitage, Douglas. Text when you’ve finished sulking.” Douglas rolls his eyes and ignores the texts until the next morning.

Unfortunately, texting becomes his only method of communication for the next day and a half, until his voice returns enough for him to carry on any semblance of a conversation. He’s long since emerged from his self-imposed exile, assuring Carolyn he’ll be ready for the flight at the end of the week. By now, most of the spots on his face and hands have disappeared and the rest have crusted over, but there’s a particularly annoying one behind his left ear and another on the bottom of his foot that won’t seem to go away. Luckily, the flight is only a short out-and-back to Toulouse. In an attempt to not completely humiliate himself, he spends the next two days using every trick he learned in Uni from various Drama students to bring back his voice.

Apparently, some of his luck must be returning, because by the time Friday rolls around his voice is nearly back. Granted, it’s without his usual resonance, but the majority of the squeaking has ended and he sounds more on the right side of puberty now. Putting on his uniform, though, yields a surprise. Somewhere along the way, he’s misplaced a stone or two--his trousers fit more loosely than before and his jacket rivals Martin’s in space around the middle. Luckily, Douglas’s shoulders are broad enough that he only looks trim and not Victorian street urchin like some other pilots he could name. 

When he walks into the Portakabin, he’s immediately greeted with an enthusiastic bear hug from Arthur, who nearly knocks him off his feet. Martin is more subdued, but his assessing gaze takes a satisfied turn as he waves to Douglas from across the room, phone wedged at his ear. With a grateful smile at Arthur for the mug of coffee he presses into his hands, Douglas settles in his chair, slipping easily into familiar patterns. He’s not quite 100 percent, but he’s getting there, bit by bit.

The flight to Toulouse is a quiet one. Douglas is keen to demonstrate how fine he is and proposes a word game immediately on takeoff. Martin is surprisingly adept at this one, and their banter is as fast-paced as ever. Everything is proceeding as expected, until he makes initial contact with Toulouse on approach and his voice gives out on him unexpectedly. Martin takes over smoothly without batting an eyelash, but Douglas’s cheeks still flame with embarrassment. 

Blessedly, his captain says nothing, only calls Arthur for another round of teas and passes a lozenge Douglas’s way. He accepts with something of his usual grace and spends the rest of the flight in silence, which Martin fills with idle chatter about everything he’s missed while he’s been out. The story about Carolyn’s epic battle with a fishmonger and his sixteen tons of sturgeon is particularly amusing, especially when Martin’s gestures cause him to let go of the stick more than is strictly proper. It’s a sign of his trust in Douglas that he lets go at all, on the downwind leg, and doesn’t escape Douglas’s attention.

All in all, it’s a good flight, but the ones that follow are even better. Douglas is slow to recover and has his share of bad days, when every word out of Arthur’s mouth or breath on the other side of the flight deck grates on his nerves, but they grow fewer and further between. And the day he’s able to clear his throat without Martin getting a concerned, pinched look between his eyebrows is the day he considers the end of the ordeal. Forever and ever, amen.

 

\-----

Five months later, he spends a horrid weekend with an Emily who’s contracted some form of the flu, or at least so says the pediatrician who caves under Douglas’s relentless interrogation via phone. It’s nearly nine in the evening on Sunday before she stops trying to retch up every morsel of food she’s thought of eating in the last two weeks, and another half hour after that before Douglas has plied her with enough ginger beer and weak tea to be satisfied she’ll not wither away of dehydration in the night. Gently, he helps her out of her soiled pyjamas and re-makes the bed, tucking her in snugly. 

“Do you want a story, Ems?” he asks.

She shakes her head slightly.

“A song?”

Another head shake.

“Do you want anything else?”

Emily flops over and curls into as small a ball as she can make herself in lieu of an answer, knees and forehead pressed against the cool wall, back to her father. Douglas stays a bit, rubbing her back and stroking her hair with his broad, warm hands until she’s asleep, congested snuffling bouncing off the walls. With a wince, he rises from his cramped position and settles himself on the sofa with some terrible telly.

He’s just about dozed off to the sounds of the next day’s weather report when he hears the soft patter of bare feet on the floor.

“Emily?” He rubs his eyes and cranes his neck to look over the back of the sofa. “What happened, darling?”

She says nothing, climbing into the tiny space left between his side and the sofa’s arm.

“Do you feel sick again?”

Emily makes a noncommittal grunt, sliding her legs over his lap and curling into his chest. With a sigh, he retrieves the blanket he’s been using for the last few nights from where it’s wedged itself in the back of the cushions and drapes it over her, rubbing her back and humming a bit. Emily curls closer to the rumbling in his chest, pressing her ear over his heart. Douglas hums every soothing song he can think of—the deeper the better—in an effort to lull her back to sleep.

He thinks he’s successful and is about to turn the television back on when Emily snuffles up from his jumper. “Daddy?”

Douglas strokes her hair, tucking it around her ear. “Mmmm?”

“I’m sorry for bein’ trouble.”

A piece of his heart breaks--he’d hoped she’d not inherited this from him.

“You’re no trouble at all, Ems. I promise”“

Emily’s silent for an awful long time. Then, “I should go back to my room.”

He ponders this for a moment, rubbing her back rhythmically. “If you really want to, you can. But....can I tell you something first?”

She nods into his chest.

“I think right now that you feel two things. A very big part of you is a little embarrassed and shy. You think that you’re causing trouble, and maybe the tiniest bit like I’ll stop loving you and get tired of you because you’re too much work. But another big part of you really likes being cuddled when you don’t feel well. Do I have it a little right?”

He feels her very carefully not move a muscle--more evidence in support of his fears than an actual “yes” would have been.

“Oh, _Ems_ ,” he says. “I love you, so very, very much, and I care about what happens to you. There’s nothing you could do to make me stop loving you. You being sick, or hurt, or in trouble only makes me want to help; it doesn’t make me angry. I would only be sad if you thought you couldn’t come to me for help. And it may feel like you want to be alone, so that you’re not causing trouble, but I promise you you’re not. People who care for you are _always_ glad for the chance to do something to make you feel happy or better. I promise.”

Emily’s still very still, but it’s the tiniest bit less tense than before.

“Do you remember when I was very sick? When I got the chickenpox and you couldn’t come visit?”

She nods.

“I felt just like you’re feeling now. I didn’t want to make trouble, and I was really embarrassed to let Martin and Carolyn and Arthur see me at all, so I hid. And.... You can’t tell anyone I told you this, but it was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. Because instead of just being a little embarrassed until I got better, I got really, really ill and _still_ had to be embarrassed. I was so ill, I couldn’t even cook or take a shower or anything. And Carolyn saw my pants. The ones you got me with the airplanes on!”

There’s an encouraging little smile threatening the corner of her mouth he can see. “I know it’s hard to believe or understand, love, but sometimes....Sometimes, the people who love you know you well enough to know what’s good for you, even if you don’t. You have to trust them, because not trusting anyone only leaves you sad and lonely. And that’s the worst feeling ever.”

He waits until he feels her nod, then resumes carding his fingers through her hair.

“Do you still want to go back to your room?”

There’s a momentary pause, during which he’s sure she’s weighing his words against her feelings, but then she only snuggles closer and shakes her head minutely.

“Alright, then, here it is,” he says and pulls her a little closer.

Eventually, the soothing works, and with a soft sigh her grip on his jumper relaxes. He’s fearful of waking her by moving, settling for propping his legs up on the coffee table. In that way, they spend the rest of the night, Emily dozing by turns and Douglas stroking her back, talking quietly to her when she’s awake, humming gently when she’s not. And while he’s not a panacea, and no amount of father’s love can cure the flu, the fact that he’s there is enough for her. As, he’s beginning to understand, it ever was


End file.
